


Debris

by sonshineandshowers



Series: relations [3]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma, Whump, Wound That Would Not Heal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22927948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Each time Malcolm landed firmly in harm’s way, pieces of him would break the fall. They never quite fit back together the same. A divot in his stomach. Stray edges across his back. The ghost of pins in his hand. Traces of trauma left behind.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Wound That Would Not Heal.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell
Series: relations [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640806
Comments: 13
Kudos: 106
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Debris

Each time Malcolm landed firmly in harm’s way, pieces of him would break the fall. They never quite fit back together the same. A divot in his stomach. Stray edges across his back. The ghost of pins in his hand. Traces of trauma left behind.

He can't cut strawberries.

He pulled the leaves with his fingers, yet halted lopping the tops with the paring knife. He can't slice into their delicate flesh to add them to a bowl - they’re bursting with life that’ll ooze out onto the cutting board, bleed across the counter. His hand shakes and he sets the knife aside.

"Hi." Dani's arms wrap around him from behind, placing a kiss on the side of his neck.

"You're early." He squeezes her arms across his stomach.

His shake continues against her, and she looks across the counter. "I interrupted a surprise."

"Yeah." His head bows, hiding his brow’s pinch of shame that he couldn’t finish it.

"I'll work on the strawberries,” she offers in the same nonjudgemental lilt that comes when she fixes dinner, tucks him back into bed after his panicked screams woke her. “Did you make the whipped cream already?"

"No." He shakes his head.

"Cake done?" Her thumb massages comfort into his.

"It's chilling in the fridge." With Prosecco and salmon waiting to be baked.

“You start the whipped cream, I’ll finish these?” she poses, a simple conclusion to get them to sitting together over dinner.

“You weren’t supposed to have to work on your own surprise,” he lightly complains. But it’s the only way the strawberries are getting onto the cake. The only way to give her homemade birthday strawberry shortcake.

"We'll do it together." Her answer for everything.

* * *

The remnants don’t erode with time. What’s stuck in the wounds gets permanently fused, carried on with him for the rest of his life. A seam in his ribs reminding him to call for backup. Rough skin on his wrists enforcing cuffs as a necessity to make it through the night. As much as he wants to hold his…Dani, as much as he wants to fly hurtling up the stairs at the sound of danger, he doesn’t.

He calls for backup.

 _Then_ he takes off.

Two at a time, pants bunching around his thighs. Checking the third story entryway and finding silence, popping out to climb to the fourth. Looking down two hallways of apartments - still nothing. He slams face first into the wall, head thwacking, and realizes too late the assailant is behind him, gets pulled back for a ringing repeat, and goes head over toe swoosh, thud, and clunk down a garbage chute.

His first thought: how the hell did he fit?

His second thought: _shit_.

* * *

Gil ducks under the police tape, pulls back the corner of the sheet -

It’s not Malcolm. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. _Thank goodness_.

His gaze drifts to the multilevel apartment building in front of them, officers trailing in and out of the entrance. _Where is Malcolm?_

“We have an unidentified male trapped in a garbage chute inside,” a police officer explains, drawing his attention.

 _Malcolm_ -

The police officer gestures at the body. “We arrived to this guy trying to flee - jumped from that window up there.” He points at the third story. Suspected for murdering and molding victims into yoga poses, his unwise decision for a getaway ended in shavasana.

Gil runs inside, following the foot traffic to a stairwell. “Guy’s name is Malcolm,” an officer relays. “Having one hell of a time keeping him calm.”

“He’s our consultant,” Gil returns. His kid who can’t freaking follow instructions and keep his ass out of trouble. Who’s responsible for the latest streak of grey in his hair. Who feeds the insatiable appetite of his worry.

The officer leads him to the second floor where ESU had started opening the wall. He points to the door they had propped open with a backboard shoved through it, blocking any further descent. “See if you can talk to him.”

Malcolm had fallen far enough they didn't want to risk further damage to his shoulders or neck looping rope and pulling him out by the ankles. Thankfully, he hadn't fallen to the point he'd ended up in the basement, or the coroner would have had a second body to remove from the scene.

Gil considers the dimensions of the doorway and the width of Malcolm’s shoulders, piecing out how he would have fit rather easily. He holds the door and pokes his head in, getting whacked with the pungent decay of refuse. The porcupine of Malcolm’s hair is a few feet up. His shoulder’s wedged into the wall; he can’t see his face.

“Bright?”

Each too quick breath reverberates in the chute. Malcolm tells himself he can wait a little bit longer, yet the next one catches before the first can exhale.

He had fallen, but how had he stopped? How had his shoulder caught? How had his head hit the wall? How had his legs crunched? How far had he dropped?

At least if he angles his eyes up in his head, he can now see the yellow backboard and a trace of Gil’s face below him in his peripheral vision. He’s no longer screaming in the darkness, his voice amplified throughout the building calling for help.

His breath is sour with lunch and fear, the shaft rank, and each subsequent inhale smacks him in the face again.

"Kid, I'm here,” Gil reassures.

He focuses on the metal's chill against his forehead. The warm timbre of Gil's voice. Breathes. Waits. Breathes. Calm isn’t attainable, yet maybe he can hang on.

“ _Gil_.” The syllable bounces around the shaft, flooding it with relief. “I called for backup.”

“That you did.” He finds a chuckle. “Seems you missed the next item on the checklist.”

“Wait for backup.” Malcolm wheezes; his lungs feel so squeezed. “Yeah, uh, I’ve been here waiting for it a little bit.”

Hammering the wall rattles the chute and Malcolm fights to manage his breathing. “Fuck,” he swears.

“It's good your mother didn't hear that,” Gil teases, knowing things were bad when he started letting curses slip. “Keep talking to me, kid.”

“It’s - hard to breathe - in here,” he shares in between gasps.

“They’re remodeling the place as we speak," Gil encourages. Pulling drywall, cutting through wood, doing what they can to get to the stainless steel chute.

“Hope it’ll - do something about the smell - it’s making me sick.” He quiets as his stomach churns, taking measured breaths.

Gil imagines it's from the blood pooling in his head. He aims for keeping him distracted. “I broke my Yankees mug today.”

“ _Again_?” Malcolm emphasizes in disbelief.

“What can I say? Sometimes I’m a klutz.” Like when he got phone calls from the reckless energy that formed his kid.

“That’s three, Gil,” Malcolm tallies, as if he’s the one who needs to be concerned for him.

“Only three?” Sure seemed like a lot more.

“I’ll get you a new one when I get out of here,” Malcolm promises. He’d be out soon, back on his feet, back on the ground -

Rattling picks up again, this time directly on the chute he’s inside. “Ahhhh,” he cries out, the movement jostling his shoulder, making the thrumming in his head even stronger.

“Bright?” Gil tries to ground him again.

Panting meets him, pattering against the metal.

“Kid?”

The air’s warm, but he’s cold. His head hurts, but he can’t tell if it’s from the pressure or a head wound. And he can’t lose the smell. “I think I might pass out,” he admits, closing his eyes.

“They’re real close - gonna be out soon,” Gil updates, hoping the information is somehow more comforting from Malcolm’s perspective. Gil’s got a crick in his neck from craning into the chute; he can’t imagine how Malcolm feels.

“Bodies aren’t made to stay upside down,” Malcolm complains. Hyperbole rampant, he’s certain his head will explode.

“That magician did it for a real long time," Gil reminds of the stunt in Central Park.

“He got up every hour,” Malcolm amends. The spectacle had drawn rampant criticism.

But Gil finds the rub. “You haven’t been here an hour.”

Surely he could match the magician. “My head’s heavy.”

“All those brains.”

Yet somehow not enough. More clanging against the chute, and the fumes spill out onto the floor.

“Malcolm - you’re gonna feel a pull, and we’re gonna tip you out," a police officer relays.

There's hands on his ankles, his calves, rising up to his knees. How many people? His shoulder starts sliding against the wall, and is his head still attached to his body? Each shift brings a new rip of fuck, that hurts.

They get his hips through the opening and his shoulders and head follow, a cervical collar going onto him as soon as he clears the door. They're laying him flat on a gurney, and he feels weird, and it's loud, and he can't see Gil, he can't -

"I'm right here, kid." Gil takes his hand, notes its frigidity, and hopes holding it can bring some warmth to the digits. 

Panic remains as blood works back through his limbs. He may be free, yet all the people in his space don't help him feel that way.

“You’re gonna be alright, kid,” Gil soothes, brushing grime from his face.

* * *

Malcolm gets out with a separated shoulder, Gil taking him home from the hospital the same day once he’s cleared of any head or neck injury. He’s got his fair share of bruises, yet that’s his usual MO: look like hell, but fine. Gil leaves him in Dani’s care to be attended to.

Pieces of his shoulder healed into a reminder to wait for backup. Moments in the darkness evoke the narrow chute, bringing fresh life to his captivity.

“Can I turn the light on for you?” Dani asks, her arm reaching and hovering over the switch.

“Yes, please.”

The lamp brings a yellow glow to the living room, warming the space for the continuation of the movie. She massages his scalp where his head rests against her chest, giving him a feeling he can only define as home.

"You're everything," he tells her, meaning swelling into the words.

She kisses the top of his head and drops her arms lower in a hug across his chest. “You.”

* * *

Sometimes, the wounds don’t heal.

Gil hollering, "Do you have a death wish?"

And Malcolm quietly replying, "Not actively."

A standoff in Gil’s office over whether he’d reacted prematurely at a scene, rushing in without clearing corners. Gil not holding his tongue on, “Do I need to make you a freaking checklist?” and Malcolm shaking his head and leaving.

Dani's quiet request of, "Can you lay down with me?" And at his hesitation, "Just until I fall asleep."

They're on Gil's pull-out sofa. There for any help the man in the next room might need, any whim he might desire.

He's out for the night; a knife wound would do that to a guy.

But Malcolm's wired. "This isn't gonna help you sleep," he warns, his hand jittering against her.

Not like his pacing was either. "It's not your fault, Bright."

"He told me the same thing." In the hospital when Malcolm kept repeating “I’m sorry” after failing to clear corners for the second time that day. The doctor assuring it was just a slice that needed stitches, not something more life threatening. Again when Gil insisted he didn’t need a nursemaid, but didn’t push the issue. It was easier to keep Malcolm under the same roof than have him do something stupid.

"Well, great minds and all."

She trying to calm him, transferring breaths between sweaters on their skin, holding his hand against her heart's rhythm, yet it’s an unwinnable battle. She’s exhausted, and he’s lit with energy listening for any sounds from the next room. She drifts off and he returns to pacing.

Gil wakes to the familiar sound of his kid's feet padding on the hardwood. The bedside clock greets him with 3AM. He eases upright and finds him in the kitchen. “Kid, come to bed,” Gil instructs, his voice tired, still in need of rest.

“I can’t.” He evokes the boy Gil and Jackie had struggled to tuck in.

“I can’t sleep with your marathon out here.” An exaggeration expertly crafted: he may not tend to himself, yet his care for Gil is unwavering.

They end up in the guest room that doubled as Malcolm’s, Gil easing the cuffs onto his wrists and sitting beside him. “I’ll stay.”

“I didn’t clear the corner,” Malcolm admits anew. He’d told Gil at the scene, in the hospital, once they’d brought him home.

“I know, kid. Now you won’t make that mistake again.”

But Malcolm’s less sure. He leans his head toward Gil’s chest and Gil wraps his arm around him in a gesture they hadn’t completed in a while. Some of the zaps transfer between them, reducing the load on Malcolm.

Gil speaks into his hair, “Now, c’mon - it’s a scratch compared to what Watkins did to you.” To what Malcolm had done to his father.

Malcolm’s fingers grip into Gil’s t-shirt. “I still need you here.”

“You matter, kid.” He brushes his hair. “To me, to Dani, to everyone on our team. So maybe lay off the trigger a little bit.”

Malcolm breathes in the cinnamon of Gil’s aftershave, the light freshness of his t-shirt, the clean crispness of his deodorant. “Dani’s gonna think I lost it if she finds us like this.”

“No, she won’t.” He’s confident judgement is the last thing on her mind. “Sleep. I’ll be right here.”

* * *

The wound seeps when Malcolm rushes to collect a girl, and Dani gets pistol-whipped in the process. He gets benched, yet he punishes himself worse. Opens the drawer upstairs with his father's case files. Takes laps around the city when he should be sleeping. Spoils her rotten with every comfort food he can remember until she pleads, "Bright, _please_.”

Fluids drain when Gil falls pulling him back by the collar. He’s fine, but the suspect gets alerted and evades them. Claims another victim before they can catch him. More blood on his hands. Blood that trails and leaks in a never-ending spring.

He can be aware of the weakness of the injury, but it never closes. He's not running in half-cocked, but when the adrenaline flies, he'll choose the victim, the case, the team's lives - his own life a distant fourth or fifth. It's when the team's wellbeing and the victims get twisted that causes the biggest problems.

They end up back in Gil's office with a finger of whiskey. "It's not your fault, kid,” he reminds, yet the soundtrack is so common, it’s ignored.

Malcolm knows it is. Can admit he's wrong. That he's been trying to fix it, but it’s not a simple instruction; the difference between two early and too late is a flash running on adrenaline. A judgement that is wrong sometimes. And he'd rather err on premature.

He zigs, and Gil zags, ”There will never be enough saves to close the hole from your dad."

Malcolm freezes, his ability to talk pouring out as well. There isn't enough alcohol in his glass for _that_ conversation. He downs it and it stings.

Gil looks over the impact in his forehead, the shadow of dust settling in his cheeks finding the ground, the shake of his glass that might be next to tumble. “You won't heal that wound here."

That splits it open. It weeps, fighting to clear debris, mixing with tears and filth. For every grain pushed out, another falls back in. Festering, chafing until the next incident brings it to a head. A chink in his pieces that won’t mend.

Gil sits next to him on the couch, and Malcolm burrows into his shoulder, dampening the low thrum of pain that never goes away.

No matter how many drugs, treatments, or therapies - a wound that just _is_.

Yet _he_ can _be_.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
